


Allow to Wither

by imochan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, MWPP, Marauders' Era, Road-trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 03:27:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2717171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imochan/pseuds/imochan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A trip together.</p><p>(originally posted 2006)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Allow to Wither

**Title:** Allow to Wither  
 **Author:** [](http://imochan.livejournal.com/profile)[**imochan**](http://imochan.livejournal.com/)  
 **Pairing:** Sirius/Remus  
 **Rating:** Gen  
 **Warnings:** The usual.  
 **Notes:** For the [](http://shacking-up.livejournal.com/profile)[**shacking_up**](http://shacking-up.livejournal.com/) prompt challenge! Parts of this are indeed shamelessly ripped off from previous drabbles   
 **Recipient:** Oh, I lucked out. Thank god for [](http://statelines.livejournal.com/profile)**statelines** es ♥! I'm sorry it's not better :">

 

 

On a pale dirt road somewhere to the north of Leeds, Sirius falls asleep at the wheel. It's five in the afternoon and Remus is curled up in the backseat – the last time Sirius checked in the rear-view, he was drooling on the upholstery, bandaged arm cradled to his chest – and the car, merrily oblivious to the lack of consideration being shown to it, continues on down the road towards home.

* * *

I'm a shite driver, Sirius had said. More than two wheels, count me out.

It knows the way, Remus had shrugged, and shook a bit of Spell-o-tape from the tip of his wand.

You know. You don't have to – Sirius had said, because all of Remus's belongings in five small boxes was a little unnerving, even to him.

Stop it, said Remus, and that was it, then. It wasn't the boxes, really, or the eviction notice from last week that he still had folded neatly in the back pocket of his trousers, or the full moon to rise that night, or the fact that the Lupin farm was rather a bit farther away from London than London itself, or that he still had to say no, no, I couldn't, I wouldn't want to impose, no no, stop it, to his mates. It was just what it was. And anyway, he thought weakly in the dusty light of an empty room, with the silhouette of Sirius's shoulders in the window, the taste of weak tea on his tongue, something thunderous in his pulse, anyway, his Da needed the car back on the farm for the autumn. There were reasons enough.

* * *

They sat on the fire escape, together. Sirius locked his hands behind his head, Remus looped his elbows around his knees, and the cherry of the setting sky painted their noses pink. The iron of the railing was that certain sort of fading black – antique valentine-paper curls of rust, on the edges, under Remus's fingernails – the little ridges of the lattice held the warmth of the day, released it in slow pulses to the skin. Sirius had brick-dust in his hair, a smudge of the remainder of something sweet on his lower lip; and when their fingers touched on the railing - curl, graze and pass - Remus felt the undercurrent of his skin flare like the whole of the summer.

You ready? Sirius asked. S'getting dark

It's not, Remus wanted to say, because he felt the cold tingle of his skin, like anticipation and anger, and he wanted – the strongest feeling yet and nothing to do with the wolf inside him – he wanted to will the sun to stick in the sky – hang, bird and keep time in your teeth, the heat in our skin, _stay_ , he thought.

All right, he said, and stood, head crowning the sky.

* * *

When they left – early, the next morning - with Remus bleeding sluggishly, one ankle bruised and black, his breathing laboured, supported around the waist, Sirius stopped them on the street and blew a kiss up to the window, and Remus had to laugh, a little, though his ribs ached.

Tosser, he said. You _were_ fond of it.

Yeah, said Sirius, and helped him into the car. Once, I even pissed in the corner. By the window, you know? That's _affection_. The door slammed, the seat creaked when Sirius sat, and the car made a small, tired whine when it started.

That's marked territory, Remus murmured, closing his eyes. You dog.

Same fucking thing, laughed Sirius, and adjusted the rear-view mirror.

* * *

"Sirius?"

The light around him is that early-evening aquamarine, fuzzy and shadowed and violet on the edges of the sky, and the whisper makes him startle a little, sleep rolling away from him in slow, uneven layers.

"Mnh," he says, neck sore and mouth sticky.

"Where – " says Remus, leaning forward from the back seat, hand braced on the headrest, and Sirius realizes more clearly that he has no idea where they are. The car is stopped and quiet; through the windshield there is a small petrol station and a smaller building to the rear, almost nestled in the forest with its poorly-shingled roof and peeling paint, and a yellow neon sign advertising CIGARETTES and MARY'S PUB. " -- where _are_ we?"

"Fuck," snaps Sirius, squeezing the steering wheel in a throttle grip, glaring down at the gas pedal beneath his feet. "Some bloody help you were, piece of - "

The car dings happily, needle jumping on the dash; swinging significantly over the empty petrol symbol, and behind him, Remus gives a tired laugh.

"Oh, for -- don't encourage it," Sirius mutters, and goes to fill the tank.

* * *

Mary is a cheerful, wrinkled-forehead, painted-eyebrows, plastic-blonde woman of about fifty-five or so, and Sirius takes to her immediately because her smile is – despite everything else, honestly – genuine and warm, and because she winks and gives him a discount on the petrol.

"Ta, darling," he says, and looks back at Remus, who is standing by the doorway, bandaged arm tucked in the sleeve of his grey jumper and exhaustion written in face in pink cheeks and little worry lines on his forehead. "Listen. Your pub..."

"What'll it be, loves?" says Mary, and points them to a corner booth.

* * *

It is Earl Grey in two chipped mugs – Sirius's has a lipstick smudge on the handle and Remus sniffs the cream discretely before it's clear it won't kill them – and they slump tiredly with their elbows on the table.

"This one's on me," says Sirius. "Cheers."

"So kind of you," murmurs Remus, eyes rolling, under the clink of their mugs. "Throwing away all your money on a hopeless case like me."

"This is last time, anyway," Sirius grins – the plastic covering of the seats squeaks strangely when he shifts. "After this, you're on your own."

"Hm," says Remus, and cups his mug with both hands, left jumper sleeve pulled down to his knuckles and balled up in his fist. Sirius remembers, oddly, one night in school when it was an early winter, and the Shack was leaking snow like water, drifts collecting in the corners like sawdust, and Remus shivering silently on the bed. When they'd found blankets, finally, it's the one something he remembers with an odd, selective clarity, the way that Remus fisted the wool in his hands, tucked under his chin; the way that when he pressed a curious palm to Remus's cheek, he felt the body heat return.

"Christ," says Sirius. "Don't be a huge girl about it."

Remus tilts his head away when he laughs, as if it's a secret – as if he's embarrassed by his own smile. "It'll be nice," he says.

"Sure it will," says Sirius. "You're just glad you don't have to humor me every day now, aren't you?"

"Oh, god forbid," murmurs Remus. "No more reminding you to buy milk."

"You're still doing that. All the way from fucking Hertfordshire if you need to."

"No more halfsies on your stupid Chinese takeaways."

"Fuck you! That's fine cuisine."

"Speaking of - no one to make you cheese toasties."

"I'll expect them by post, you stingy bastard."

"Got an answer for everything, don't you?" says Remus, wryly, over the rim of his mug, and yeah, thinks Sirius. Maybe I do. Maybe it's better if we think that.

Because it's not how he planned it, he thinks. Remus thought, maybe, and maybe I did too, he thinks. He thought we'd find togetherness as easy in the real world. But it isn't, he knows. He's a sick father and a dead mum, and he can't hold down a steady job or live in the city, but this, out in the country, with enough space between them for Sirius to sometimes entertain the occasional delusion, and close enough to see them all – see him – on weekends. Well, thinks Sirius, yes. Maybe the corners of the world were beckoning to Remus, a little. Maybe he did open the door this morning and think about the countryside. And maybe he has been waking up too many days with sticky, honey-tasting dreams fleeting on the edges of his nerves, like Sirius has, with Remus Lupin in every corner of his being. So maybe this is a good place to begin, after all, he thinks, with tealeaves on the roof of their mouths – with the evening air through the window just cool enough to demand that they press their sides together – elbows knocking – for warmth.

* * *

"Want to come in," asks Remus. "Da would like to see you, I'd bet."

"Nah," says Sirius, and scuffs his shoe on the veranda steps. "S'too late to bother him, anyway."

"Next time, then," says Remus, and puts his hand on the doorlatch, balancing the last box on his hip.

"Oi, let me – " Sirius moves to hold the door open. He's a little frightened, he realizes, because he knows that if he doesn't stop thinking, the whole thing is going to become something rather sad. Their fingers, on the threshold, curl together for a moment, and it's one of those things, thinks Sirius, pre-painted in sepia, because autumn is threatening the colours of the world and at night even the stars look sallow and the moon is turning orange on the horizon, just this side of perfect and whole.

"Well," says Remus, through the doorway. "Well. Ta. For the ride."


End file.
